


The Windsor Knot

by floweringjudas (manipulant)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Coercion, Death Eaters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manipulant/pseuds/floweringjudas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from <a href="http://www.tcm.phy.cam.ac.uk/~tmf20/tieknots.shtml">here</a>: <i>"The Windsor produces a large, solid, triangular knot, which is not worn as frequently as it was in the first half of the 20th century. In the Ian Fleming novels, Bond thinks the Windsor knot is 'the mark of a cad'. Today it is, curiously, the knot of choice of (once) communist leaders and dictators. The knot is self-releasing."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Windsor Knot

  
_Li_   


Only seventeen and at the Department of International Cooperation already--his father has been telling everyone in the Ministry corridors who'll listen about His Son, Percy.

Percy finds he doesn't need to do the same. He _wears_ his lineage, he cannot escape it: the combination of second-hand robes (even pressed and spotless), freckles, and red hair are instantly translateable to the entire Ministry workforce as "Weasley."

Still embarrassed at already outranking his father, who's worked there for years, Percy keeps his head down. He's determined to improve his family's fortunes, if he can. He's not been there two weeks, though, when an unexpected problem presents itself--in the form of an offensively familiar man.

Lucius Malfoy comes to visit Bartemius Crouch on a matter of business and, when he spies Percy at his desk in the corner, gives a look of total disgust. Turning to the older man, he drawls " _Really_ , Crouch, a _Weasley_? Were there not enough elves to go around this year?"

Crouch tuts, gives Percy a rueful smile as he ushers the man out of the room. Face on fire, blood rushing in his ears, Percy hunches over the report he's working on and pretends not to hear the addition of "...perhaps you could train him to wear a tea cosy anyway" out in the hallway.

For not the first time, Percy reflects on the peculiarity of his position: in order to save his family, he must appear not to belong to it.

 

  
_Co_   


 

Eighteen, now, Percy has purchased two sets of work robes that cost more than the children's schoolbooks put together. He knows this because he took the Flourish and Blotts receipt from his mother and withdrew that amount from his Gringotts account--she cried tears of relief when he gave it to her, and kissed his cheek, and asked Percy not to tell his father she'd "acted like a big silly."

He rather hates his father, for those tears.

Madam Malkin's assistants had chosen complementary colours, deep blues and greens and browns, for the fabric of his clothes and Percy is content with how the quality of the robes shows. Now, when his fingers trace over the buttons of his waistcoat (a nervous habit), the action brings him comfort (lovely small pearl buttons) instead of worry over which will fall off next.

There's a pop of Apparation in the next room. "Weatherby," a voice calls from Mr. Crouch's office, and Percy sighs and stands, arranging his expression into one of competent eagerness he finds most effective.

"Yes, s--oh!" He blinks; Mr. Crouch isn't in the room but for Merlin-knows-what-reason, Lucius Malfoy is. "Hello, sir," Percy says, losing the eager expression, going cool. "How may I help you?"

Malfoy gazes at him for a moment, and Percy finds himself squaring his shoulders before he can consider it. "I was talking with Bartemius via floo-call a few days ago--he mentioned he wasn't feeling well?" he asks.

"Yes, he's taking a bit of time off, to recover," Percy says, lofty.

"Ah. No doubt he deserves it," Malfoy says smoothly, nodding. "He said he had a file of information for me to look over, some business he wanted my" there's a little pause " _professional_ opinion on. Would you mind locating it for me?"

Percy raises an eyebrow. "Did he say which?"

Malfoy produces a small scroll of parchment and hands it over. Percy's relieved to see it has his superior's handwriting, and immediately recognises in the request a knowledge of the peculiarities of Crouch's personal filing system, so does not doubt its authenticity. "Just a moment," he says, handing the note back and going to a cabinet, kneeling to search. It takes only a moment, and he turns and offers the file up. Lucius comes to receive it, tilting his head to gaze at Percy.

"The robes. They're Malkins," he says, a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, sir," Percy says, quirking an eyebrow again. "...Her assistants, rather."

"Mm. You can tell by the stitching," Malfoy murmurs, running a fingertip over the seam on his shoulder. "The colours, however are an inspired choice." He nods, takes his hand away. "I have my own tailor, a Muggle in Whitechapel, mute-deaf but brilliant with a needle. I'll give him your name if you like."

Completely dumbfounded, Percy finds himself nodding as well. "Thankyou, sir."

"Well." A small, intriguing hint of a smile. "Please, call me Lucius."

Percy nods again, and Lucius disappears into the private Floo.

Percy's still on his knees.

 

  
_Ri_   


 

Percy tells himself he has no idea how this has happened, but privately knows better: Mr. Crouch's extended leave of absence from work has left him without direct supervision, and as they say, while the cat's away...

He finds himself, however, playing this afternoon in a wholly unexpected arena: Savile Row. The world of bespoke tailoring is far removed from his own hurried fittings with the Malkin assistants, and he feels uncomfortable and out-of-place inside the building. Lost in thought in a truly magnificent armchair, he curses himself for a weak-spined fool for allowing Lucius to persuade him to extend his lunch by another hour, but then an assistant brings him a cup of tea (milk, no sugar, just as he likes it, how--?). He gives the man a smile, and glances over towards the mirrors, where Malfoy is still submitting patiently to being chalked up. Lucius is watching him in the mirrors, and Percy can feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he raises his cup in a silent toast, smiling as he drinks.

Instead of musing over how occasional business-focused lunches with a crowd have gradually turned into regular lazy lunches by themselves, Percy takes in his surroundings. He cups the tea in his hands and sips as if it's his own personal Eucharist, consecrated by the setting, the tangible feeling of comfortable wealth and confidence in the room. No stranger to envy, Percy is still almost overwhelmed at how much he _wants_ that feeling for himself, to take it into his body and have it settle there.

When the fitting is done ( _one more_ , Lucius tells Percy after, _and then it'll be done--ten months to accomplish by Muggles what_ we _could do in an afternoon_ ) and Lucius has changed back into his own relatively Muggle World-compliant clothes, Percy stands and prepares for their departure. Lucius, however, is distracted from making his next appointment by a nearby display table of neckties and cufflinks. Eyes sparkling like a child's on Christmas, he reaches for Percy's arm and tugs him towards the table as well in a silent command to come worship. Percy obeys, bemused and even laughing a little as Lucius manoeuvres him closer to the table so that he can more easily match colours to Percy's (dark blue, almost black) clothes. "What do you think?" Lucius murmurs a moment later, holding up silk the same colour as gold, rich and deep and expensive-looking.

"Hmm? Oh." Percy gazes at it for a few seconds and nods, taking the end into his hand, sliding his thumb over the fabric in a brief caress. "It's lovely, isn't it. Warm," he murmurs.

"Mm," Lucius agrees, and Percy's about to say it'll look very nice with the suit Malfoy's having made, but then there's a hand on his own little tie, loosening the knot Percy arranged meticulously that morning, and he sucks in a breath in surprise. Lucius has heard it, judging by the small smile on his lips. "Humour me," he says, almost under his breath, and of course Percy does. He has to fight not to close his eyes as he feels the thin fabric zip away from its resting place under his collar.

"Four-in-hand," Lucius mutters, following it up with a small snort as he tosses Percy's best necktie onto the display table and turns him around to face a nearby mirror. Standing behind him, Lucius watches their reflections over his shoulder as he carefully threads the golden tie underneath Percy's collar, taking pains not to wrinkle it. "Only Hufflepuffs and Quidditch players wear four-in-hands," he murmurs, close to Percy's ear. "Nothing less than a Windsor."

Percy _does_ shiver at that, and at the curious slipping sensation along his neck as Malfoy rearranges the lengths of both tails of the tie. "...I don't..." he begins, flushing embarrassedly, glancing over to where an assistant is pretending not to eavesdrop. "That is, I."

"Ah." Lucius understands a second later and nods, his eyes not leaving Percy's in the mirror. "All right, watch me." Percy's jolted then by the curious feeling of arms snaking over his; Lucius has to curl around him a little to reach, but then begins to twist the lengths of silk around each other slowly. Carefully constructing the large, solid knot, he murmurs into Percy's ear an instructional stream of _over, under, up_ repeating the process, lulling them both by the rhythm of movement and words until Percy feels drugged.

"And through," Lucius murmurs finally, threading the broad end of the tie into the knot and out the other side, tugging Percy back into the focus. He blinks at his own reflection in the mirror and is surprised at how much _better_ he looks, how much richer, how much more confident, how much _less a Weasley_. Fussing a little with the knot, Lucius tightens it a bit ( _like a leash_ ), til it's resting snug on the hollow of Percy's throat through his shirt. "Quite a difference," Lucius says, admiring the effect of his handiwork, hands sliding to rest on his shoulders.

"Yes," Percy says faintly, staring at their reflections in the mirror more than at the knot itself. Lucius gazes at the image too, eyes inscrutable and piercing as he takes them in. For a moment, they're quiet, Lucius with his hands capped on Percy's shoulders, Percy leaning very subtly back against him. A lock of Lucius's hair has fallen onto Percy's jacket, and he turns his head slightly to tuck it back into the hair-tie, lips nearly, _nearly_ touching the thin rim of the boy's ear.

"...Have dinner with me. Tonight."

Percy turns his head enough to face him, to see the reality instead of the reflection. "...Yes." He sees a pleased flash of teeth as Lucius genuinely smiles at that, and for the first time, Percy is lightheaded with a feeling of absolute _power_.

"Good." Hands still on Percy's shoulders, Lucius turns his attention to the shop assistant long enough to instruct him to add the gold tie to his total.

 

  
_Lo_   


 

They don't make their dinner reservation, that night.

Lucius comes to fetch Percy from the office that evening, two hours after everyone else on his floor has gone home. Red hair and white skin illuminated only by the faintly-green glow of his desklamp, Percy glances up when the door opens, hastily puts away the report he'd been hurrying to finish, and gives Malfoy a nervous-eager smile. "I was only..." he begins, and gestures, trailing off, standing up. Other than the desklamp, the room is unlit and dim; the scrolls and inkwell on Percy's desk are sending various irregular shadows over the walls and floor.

Nodding briefly, Lucius sets his cane down against the chair near the door. "I'm sorry I interrupted you," he lies smoothly, tugging on each of the fingers of his gloves before he slips the material neatly off, stowing them in a pocket of his cloak.

Percy tilts his head, unknowingly throwing half his face into shadow, a small slip of a smile barely visible. "Don't be," he murmurs, a glint shining off the lenses of his eyeglasses, nearly obscuring how dark and hopeful his eyes have become.

Inhaling, Lucius tilts his chin.

Shuts the door firmly behind himself.

...Two seconds later, Percy locks it with a spell.

"Hmm," Lucius says, pleased with the boy's canniness as he shrugs out of his heavy cloak, folding and laying the thick fabric on the chair propping up his cane. He starts on the robe fastenings at the same time Percy walks out from behind his desk, and the two of them gaze at each other, eyes fixed, as Lucius finishes the row of buttons and peels off another layer of clothes, coming to the waistcoat and shirt below it.

Eyes still on Lucius', his lips now shining and barely parted, Percy shifts and begins to work the little buttons on his cuffs. A lock of hair is threatening to fall into his eyes and he takes one, two steps forward (a duel at ten paces), a hand travelling up to his neck to loosen the knot there--

"Don't," Lucius says firmly, as he undoes the last button on his waistcoat and adds it to the growing pile of clothes on the chair. Eight steps away, Percy nods and brings his hand back down, awaiting instructions mutely. "Come here," Lucius says, in the same voice he uses on horses, house elves, and his son. Shivering once, Percy obeys, closing the distance between them in measured steps, ducking his head a little so that once he's arrived, he can look at Lucius with upturned eyes.

Well-pleased, Malfoy quirks an eyebrow, smirks a little. A hand and then an arm make their way, sinuously, around Percy's waist and back, and he's pulled in abruptly, thrown off-balance by so much sensory detail at once: the sandalwood of Lucius's cologne, the warmth of the arm around him and the feeling of fingers splayed on his spine. The starched-crispness of the shirt Lucius wears, under his own hands, and all he can see is Lucius's shoulder and neck, the hinges of the door beyond--and then breath and _lips_ on his, warm and firm and imperative and _oh_.

Oh, _oh._

The lines of their bodies suddenly crushed _tight_ to each other, Lucius and Percy struggle to stay upright and shove even _closer_ \--there are hands, hands in Percy's hair and on his cheek, hands clutching the front of Lucius's shirt, wrinkling it irreparably. "Oh," Percy murmurs again (it seems all he can say), and he whimpers so beguilingly that Malfoy nearly gives up on keeping his control. Instead, he focuses on kissing--sucking and biting at lips already red and full to begin with, ensuring that tomorrow morning, people will only have to look at Weasley's _mouth_ to know he's been fucked.

Lucius twists, turning the boy with him, using the element of surprise to press him against the door and hold him there, the thin line of his body unresisting as Malfoy molds hands and hips to it. Eyes rolling back into his head as those hips begin to roll against his own, Percy clutches at Lucius's shoulders and knocks his head back against the wood of the door and tries to respond, halting and arrhythmic at first. "Good," Lucius breathes, and Percy anchors himself against the praise, and gasps when he feels lips (wet, now) against his neck for the first time.

"Oh, there," he murmurs, voice a little reedy already, knuckles white as he clings to the fabric of Lucius's shirt. He's never been so hard in his _life_ , he thinks; he's never before considered the sensations of another man's body grinding roughly against his, of the physical _fact_ of ohgod another _cock_ pressing into his hip, interested and solid and _there_ therepleasegod _there_. Legs parting a little so he can distribute his weight more evenly, Percy shudders and squeaks as Lucius presses forward, tilting his pelvis and _lifting_ him off the ground. Lucius licks at the cords in his neck, tongue flicking roughly over muscle, mouth sucking marks into the skin just under his jaw, and Percy manages to get one leg wrapped loosely around the man's hip before he loses his balance and Lucius's knees buckle.

They crash down, still half-propped against the door, Percy sprawled in Malfoy's lap and Lucius worrying at Percy's neck with a bit of _teeth_ , now, tugging him forward, _growling_ softly onto his skin. Percy has a hand in his hair, at the nape of his neck, and whines as the prominent ridge in Lucius's trousers nudges just under his balls, into the tender skin behind, shooting sparks over and through him. "Oh, oh _please_ ," he hisses--and gasps, indignant, as Malfoy _stops_.

"Never beg," Lucius tells him, pulling back enough to stare. Flushed, irritated, Percy nods and frowns and grinds himself down onto Malfoy again, eyelids fluttering at another burst of heat. He's a bit shocked at how _desperate_ he is for this all of a sudden, and then the thought's gone as the hands on his hipbones tighten their grip to the point of pain, rendering him immobile. " _Never._ Beg," Lucius says again, demanding an answer before he'll let Percy go.

"Then _move_ ," Percy hears himself snapping, eyes flashing with indignation. The hunger in Lucius's expression at that makes him almost recoil, but then they're moving again, and Malfoy has leaned in again to kiss him again, less finesse and more _want_ this time as Percy gives over.

He's on his back in the next minute, their hands and movements are quickening with need. Easier-- _oh_ , easier to press closer this way, Percy wriggles underneath Lucius. Frustrated by all the clothing, wanting everything _now_ , Lucius tugs at the hems of the shirt and accidentally tears it ( _subpar Malkin stitching_ ) in his attempt to untuck. Percy jumps in his arms and finishes the move, rucking up the fabric to expose his stomach, not bothering with the buttons, fingers heading straight for the fastenings of his trousers. Lucius, jolted by the sight of so much pale skin, groans and starts to work on his own clothes: he untucks the linen shirt and unlaces his breeches before he looks up and sees Percy, back arched, rubbing a hand over his own still-clothed cock and watching Lucius with slitted glittering eyes.

A pleading noise in the back of his own throat--sweet _Merlin_ , he wasn't expecting the boy to do _that_ \--and Lucius pounces, licking a broad wet stripe over the plane of Percy's stomach before grabbing his hips and dragging trousers and underwear down, mid-thigh. Percy yelps and winces as the elastic strap of the underwear's waistband rakes over his cock, then shivers at the look Lucius is giving him--another _please_ is on the tip of his tongue, but then Lucius grabs both his thighs and tugs _up_.

Legs lifted, undignified, into the air for a minute, Percy is nonplussed at the move before he recognises that Malfoy has turned an obstacle into an advantage. His legs are now anchored in place loosely around Lucius's waist by his own trousers, strung tight between his knees. "Mmh, yes," he murmurs, as fingers that are not his own close around his prick loosely, but the truth is he wants more, and both of them know it.

"Have you ever?" Lucius thinks to ask, as if it would change his plans.

"No. Hurry," Percy answers, biting his lip and snapping his hips up, wanting more friction. He's oddly pleased at the shudder Lucius gives at that, and then confused at the spells Lucius mutters in the next few seconds, and then _shocked_ as he feels himself stretched and slippery inside. ...He's more shocked when he realises it feels _good_.

Lucius lets go of Percy's cock and pushes his own breeches just enough out of the way. He leans forward (Percy's a bit disappointed - he hasn't had even a _glimpse_ of Lucius's prick, this isn't how he imagined this), curling around him almost, elbows on either side of Percy's shoulders as he presses his own spell-slick length down along the cleft of the boy's arse, rubbing there for a moment, wet and hot and smooth and _teasing_ , effectively driving Percy mad. " _Lucius_ ," he huffs, squeezing legs around him, shuddering as he feels ridges of cock slide _over_ his hole but not inside. Above him, Lucius grunts and shifts his weight, bringing a hand down to position the blunt head of his prick against Percy's entrance and then, with a quick hip-snap, he feels the muscle open round him as he begins to work inside.

Percy gasps and goes still, wincing at the initial pain despite the preparatory spells, curling around the hurt, forehead against Lucius's arm. "Ow--oh," he sighs, eyes shut tightly. Not letting up, Lucius goes slowly, watching him, finally allowing himself to exhale once he's entirely inside. "Just a moment?" Percy murmurs, embarrassed at the admission in the request, though he's a little reassured by the lazy press of lips against his jaw.

"Of course," Lucius murmurs, lips still against his skin as he rocks his hips against the backs of Percy's thighs, humming contentedly. A minute shift in position touches Lucius's cock against a place deep inside Percy and he cries out, skin breaking into gooseflesh at the force of the shockwave of pleasure that just washed over him. Smirking, Lucius does it again--and then again, still with his cock seated completely inside the boy as he enjoys watching the wonder in Percy's eyes, the flushed sheen that's creeping over all of his skin, the way his slim-tipped prick is now glistening.

"Oh-oh-oh- _oh_ yes," Percy gasps, head thunking back against the floor at an unfair series of jabs right to that _spot_ , and he can't keep his legs quite still as he tries to get more, bucking back onto the length that's still stretching him sore. Moaning quietly, Lucius begins to pull out, making Percy gasp _again_ at the feeling, and then pauses a second before shoving back inside.

"Oh," Percy whispers, one hand's fingernails leaving small half-moons in Lucius's back. "Good," he quickly follows up, afraid Lucius is going to stop. But Lucius doesn't-- _won't_ \--and fucks in again, using a hand on Percy's waist to hitch him up higher as his hips begin to piston rhythmically.

Winded a little at each thrust, breath forced out of him, Percy closes his eyes again and holds on, one arm twining around Lucius's beside his shoulder, one around his back. The stimulation to that place inside of him is making his hands and legs shake almost violently; the back of his shirt isn't providing much protection against the itchiness of the rug, but the slow abrasion is serving as an almost complementary counterpoint to the pleasure as Percy gasps and writhes and fucks himself down on a family enemy's rigid cock.

Above him, eyes similarly closed, Lucius murmurs a steady stream of _yes-yes-yes_ as he thrusts inside, shuddering at the wet clenching clasp of Percy's arse around him, the obscene slap of skin against skin. He leans forward, arm collapsing as he rests his forehead against the boy's chest, and he knows that if he opens his eyes he'll be able to _see_ his prick disappearing into the skinny little body and the image of that sends him reeling, back muscles tensing as he can feel the first tugs of orgasm start to pull low in his belly.

Percy keens, meeting Lucius thrust for thrust, arching so his back's off the floor and his weight's on his shoulders and his hands are in Lucius's hair. Fisting there ungently, he moans, and tries to stutter some sort of warning. "Oh, I'm..." he manages, before his mouth falls open on a sharp cry and he tenses, prick untouched and almost _hurting_ as it pulses strings of come onto both their stomachs.

Driving in through the tightening of Percy's arse around him, Lucius exhales as if he's been punched, and mouths over Percy's still-clothed chest in a parody of a kiss as he quakes. Silent and taut, he manages one more thrust before he groans and breaks, shooting in waves that seem as if they'll never end, climax dragging on, long and shuddery. Underneath him, Percy sucks in a breath at the peculiar wetness, the somewhat discomfiting idea of being a receptacle for someone else's sperm. Devastated and unmoving for a long moment, they lie there on the office floor, still connected.

Sighing, Lucius attempts to push himself up on his elbows again, with little success. He snorts a little at himself and leans back down, closing his eyes. Suddenly just as exhausted, Percy suppresses a yawn. Lucius feels the hitch in his chest from the aborted yawn, and cranes his head to glance up.

"Have you had tea?" he asks politely. Struck by the incongruity of that pleasance of expression while his softening cock is _still in Percy's arse_ , the boy can't help laughing silently, pressing fingers under his eyeglasses, rubbing his eyelids.

"No, I haven't," he admits.

"...Hmm." Malfoy is contemplative for a moment, chin propped on the boy's chest, fingers sliding idly along the length of of Percy's tie, tugging it. Percy sighs in protest, but doesn't move. "Wear this tomorrow," Lucius orders, tugging again on the tie. "I'll take you to lunch."

"I can't, the French amb--"

"One o'clock."

"Lucius, I _really_ can't, I promised I'd--"

"I'll come fetch you," he says with a nod and a brief kiss. Percy huffs a little, and then gives an undignified squeak as Lucius pulls away and out and sits up, plucking Percy's legs from around him. The older man performs a few cleaning charms, smoothes his hair back and laces his breeches, unperturbed. He gives Percy a small smile. "Til tomorrow."

"I mean it, I'm b--"

Before Percy can finish his sentence, Lucius Disapparates. Blinking once, Percy shifts uncomfortably on the carpet, sweat and come rapidly drying on his skin, and he shivers at how cold the room has suddenly become.

 

 __

Ci

 

"And you're saying that Mr. Crouch's letters _were_ subject to Authenticity Checks?"

"Yes, Mrs. Umbridge--"

" _Miss._ "

"Sorry, _Miss_ Umbridge--but the Authenticity Checking spells allotted for departments below Level Seven of the Ministry don't include scans for the Imperius Curse. It's considered a waste of funds."

"Well that seems rather _convenient_ , doesn't it?" the horrible woman smiles, eyes slitting as she stares down at Percy from the Wizengamot bench. A knot of rage tightening in his stomach, Percy schools his first instinct to snap back and instead takes a breath, glancing down at the files and papers on the table in front of him. Beside him, his father stirs in his seat.

"If I may, Minister--" Arthur begins, and Percy cannot stand it, he really _cannot stand it_ when his horrified eyes take in his father sitting up in his chair (he's already taken up five minutes of proceedings discussing _Quidditch_ results with one of the lower-ranking members on the bench in front of them). "My son is a good lad, and clever. He's..." _oh, Merlin, kill me now_ "only a bit _young_ , that's all, and--"

The only brief moment of respite given to Percy all morning comes now, as the doors at the back of the room fly open. Arthur pauses in his damning attempt to save his son, and turns around to see who's caused the intrusion, as does everyone else in the room.

"Apologies, Cornelius, I know I'm a bit early for our appointment," Lucius calls calmly, removing his hat and thick overcloak as he strolls down the main aisle. Spluttering, Fudge frowns at Malfoy, completely thrown by the interruption.

"How the devil did you know to come here, Malfoy? I left my secretary _specific instructions_ \--"

"Oh, I check the docket for Ministry inquiries each morning," Lucius says airily, giving the few women on the Wizengamot bench an entirely false smile, "on the off-chance that I've been listed among them."

Fudge snorts. "Rather an odd habit," he remarks, though he's calmed a bit, and even seems to be appreciating the brief reprieve from work. "One would think you'd _want_ to be called in, Lucius."

"'Nothing makes one so vain as being told one is a sinner'," Lucius replies, dropping his cloak and hat onto the small house elf that's appeared at his feet. Blinking, Cornelius tilts his head, trying to identify the quotation.

"Bagshot?"

"Wilde," Percy clarifies from his corner, squaring his shoulders as attention is focused on him again. One eyebrow raising, Lucius gives him a small smile before he turns back to the task at hand. Percy notices that beside him, his father's spine has stiffened, and his ears are beginning to go red.

"Yes, Wilde." Malfoy tilts his head before he begins again. "Cornelius, this is absolute rot, you know as well as I do that there's no way this boy could have been complicit in poor Barty's demise. Moreover, it's an _insult_ to his memory to try to vilify the boy he'd come to view as his protege. There's no secret how hamstrung the International Co-op is, and yet you're willing to throw one of the most promising new Ministry recruits in years to the wolves?" he says, voice going posher and haughtier as he goes on, beginning to sneer. "Is this going to become Ministry policy? If so, I may have to have a chat with my son about his post-Hogwarts plans. Perhaps he'd enjoy the _Prophet_ more."

Percy stops breathing - the words expand, taking up all the available oxygen in the room. Above him, from the Wizengamot bench, he sees Minister Fudge go a bit grey.

 

  
_Ro_   


 

Lucius knows the moment he passes through security clearance into the Minister's offices. Percy's mouth is fuller than usual, but the corners of his lips are drawn down. The steady rise and fall of his chest (under the Whitechapel tailor's best material, _good boy_ ) is deliberately paced, the bruises under his eyes no doubt the effect of a sleepless night. "Have a happy Christmas, Weasley?" he murmurs as the boy takes his cloak and hangs it. Behind him, Percy flushes, frown deepening.

"Mm. Yours?"

"Shallow and materialistic, as ever. Though the elves did do a good Christmas pudding," comes the casual reply. Glancing around the room to make sure there are no observers, he places a hand lightly at the base of the boy's spine. "...Percy."

Lips purse tightly, and Percy removes his glasses and his handkerchief to clean them, frowning down at them. "...My mother," he finally mumbles, giving a funny shrug of one shoulder before putting the glasses back on and folding the handkerchief over and over in his hands, "wouldn't leave well enough alone."

Surprised (and privately pleased at the boy's progress), Lucius remarks ironically "It's the most wonderful time of the year," making the boy snort and give him a grateful look. He pauses to consider, and removes his hand as they hear the door to Minister Fudge's office unlock. "Narcissa is in France visiting family for the holidays," he murmurs, seemingly apropos of nothing. "...Draco has elected to stay behind, this year; I believe he's found himself a young lady."

Raising his eyebrows, Percy glances over at him, gives him a smile far too old and resigned for his face. "You'll actually have to _ask_ , Lucius."

The narrow-eyed smile Lucius gives him in return telegraphs his approval. "Come for dinner."

"All right," Percy says, giving a short nod, returning to his desk a moment before Fudge emerges.

 

The next morning, Percy's jolted awake by an unexpected flood of sunlight into Lucius's bedroom. The pounding behind his eyelids and the parched-dry feeling in the back of his throat confirm the previous night's thought that the third bottle of wine after dinner was too much, and he groans quietly, shuffling closer into Lucius's side, hiding his eyes against skin.

"Father, I can't find m--oh my GOD," an equally unexpected voice suddenly calls through the small room. Eyes opening despite themselves, Percy feels Lucius stiffen just before they both look up and see Draco standing, gaping, in the doorway.

"Shit," Percy breathes, but Lucius is already moving, pulling on a robe as he slides out of the bed, cinching it shut and strolling forward in a matter of seconds.

"Can't find your what?" he asks as he moves, sounding more irritated than afraid. Behind him, Percy stretches to grab his eyeglasses off of the side table, and is startled when he is able to _see_ Draco, who is staring directly at him.

For a brief second, Percy is aware of what he must look like from the doorway, how the dark sheets and his bright hair and his pale skin must stand as contrasts. In that second he is keenly aware of the throbbing bite on his neck from the night before, how his lips are swollen and red from wine and kisses.

Perhaps it's a long-dormant instinct for self-preservation: Percy props up on his elbows and dips his chin, sucking his bottom lip in to wet it. His eyes don't leave Draco's as his legs slide apart, stretching the sheet between them like a net being cast.

Percy wonders if Lucius sees the darkening flash in his son's eyes. _Young lady, indeed._ Smiling very faintly, like his father, Draco breaks his gaze and looks up. "My broom," he lies, quirking an eyebrow. "The house elves must have done something with it. I'll need another before I return to school."

Little amused, Lucius snorts and nods briefly, willing to accept the terms of the bribe. "All right. Though from now on, you'll have to take better care of where you leave your things."

"Yes sir," Draco says, glancing back at Percy before he leaves the room. Lucius is quiet, thoughtful when he returns to bed. Percy's heart rattles with a thrill of terror and possibility.

 

When he returns to his flat later in the morning, Percy showers and dresses, and puts on the mother-of-pearl cufflinks Lucius gave him. The lumpy Weasley-jumper-shaped parcel Errol delivers that afternoon sits unopened on Percy's kitchen table for nearly a fortnight before he moves it to the uppermost corner of his closet, where it's allowed to gather dust.

 

  
_Li_   


 

Despite the twins' protestations to the contrary, Percy is not an idiot. He realises the rebellious connotations of his surname and a probable recommendation from Malfoy played more than a marginal part in his promotion. He also realises that to ensure his own political safety (Fudge's days are numbered; everyone seems to know this--everyone but Fudge himself), he will have to remain relevant. This largely translates into doing the work of three employees by himself and occasionally telling wholly innocuous but tantalising Weasley Family Anecdotes in the presence of the Minister.

An insular, protective streak keeps him from providing geographical clues for any of the family stories--especially since the Burrow now stands empty--and he refrains from giving any family members' names. Still, he can see the beady gleam in Minister Fudge's eyes when he talks about his father's toolshed and the second cousin of his mother who's an accountant. Percy switches names and dates with growing ease, smiles as he offers over another half-truth, and hopes it buys his family another week of escaping detection.

Lucius is, at least, more subtle in his digs than Fudge, which Percy supposes is why the Minister recruited him in the first place. Percy is more than a little irritated, at first, when he notices the quiet prods for information about his parents, his extended family, from this unexpected source. The first time he realises, he tries to work himself into what he supposes are proper feelings of hurt and betrayal, but the absence of logic in attempting to bemoan a snake (apt comparison) behaving as snake eventually makes him cease.

One evening after dinner in the Malfoy Manor (Percy wonders where Mrs. Malfoy goes--there can't be _this_ many social events in wizarding London, especially off-season), Lucius takes him down various corridors, showing off centuries-old portraits of Malfoy ancestors. The history of the House of Malfoy seems to be comprised entirely of incest, crimes of passion, and the usual products of overbreeding in an already murky genepool: a high percentage of pederasts, suicides, and genocidal lunatics.

Lucius's eyes shine with pride as he details the exploits of his great-great-great-aunt Hecate. Percy, one eyebrow raised, pretends to listen interestedly as he studies the painting (half-finished; apparently Aunty Hecate couldn't wait til the poor artist was through before slicing him open and bathing in his blood). Finally, Lucius's recitation stops and he glances over to see Percy's reaction--Percy quickly manufactures a smile. "Goodness," he murmurs, aiming for "appreciative."

"Mm. A very formidable witch," Lucius agrees, gazing up at the portrait, hands clasped behind his back. "We found this in Bavaria after the last great Muggle war; apparently there was a strain of family that escaped my grandfather's documentation. Genæology was one of his passions. Until then we'd thought the family confined to Paris and northern Italy."

Percy makes a noncommittal sort of noise, and nods, gazing up at the portrait, wondering what he's expected to say. After a moment, Lucius takes a hair tie out of his pocket and begins to smooth his hair back, out of his face, apparently unconcerned. "I imagine your family has many similar stories."

Percy sighs inwardly and tilts his head, assuming a pensive expression. "Not to the same extent. Then again, I don't think we're as, ah... _well-established_ as the Malfoy name. I remember my father saying something about family tracing back to Picts. Northern influence, et cetera. ...Which would explain the hair, I suppose--actually, I had an uncle who always claimed we were descendants of Godric Gryffindor, though I rather doubt there's a wizarding family in England who _can't_ claim as much, at this point."

"Oh, I believe I can think of one or two that won't," Lucius murmurs, giving him a small sideways smile. Percy snorts, and since it seems Lucius is waiting for him to go on, he tries to think of something else to say on the matter. Out of nowhere, a perverse inspiration hits.

"My father still has family in Inverness, though we haven't seen them in years," Percy invents, gesturing with a hand. "I remember going there as a child."

"Ah. Lovely part of the country. Did you see the castle?"

"No, no," Percy says, hedging his bets (he's never been to Inverness in his life). "We were never there for very long."

"I see." Lucius nods, and continues down the hallway, to the next portrait. Percy exhales and follows after, confused and a bit uneasy with himself--as a child, he was pathologically incapable of lying.

 

When, three weeks later, he notices an article in the _Daily Prophet_ about a devastating Death Eater raid on the tiny wizarding population of Inverness, Percy swallows against a rising tide of bile in his throat. He tries to tell himself he wasn't expecting it.

 

  
_Co_   


 

Percy chose his particular flat because of the high ceilings--after the claustrophobic childhood and summers spent in the Burrow's close dark rooms, the open space gives him an amazing sense of freedom. The building itself is old and a bit shabby, and situated as it is at the cusp of Diagon and Knockturn, it is a sort of liminal space between notoriety and respectability. Percy enjoys and relates to this duality.

It is still sparsely furnished, though nearly a year of Lucius Malfoy's attentions to it have made it less ascetic. The Axminster on the floor, the Vermeer over the mantel, the Louis XIV armchairs that were previously in Malfoy Manor's attic--these, when combined with the Burrow-inspired brick-and-board overcrowded bookshelves and heavy coffeemugs, give the flat a paradoxical appeal. In the evenings Lucius visits, he always seems surprised at the place, perplexed by the simple, filling food Percy serves him on plain white plates. Percy is less his, Lucius's, creation in his own environment.

The sex they have in Percy's flat speaks more of comfort than intensity: naked and slouched back in one of his grandfather's chairs, Lucius lets Percy slide down onto him as slowly as he likes, puts his palms on the tops of his thighs and rocks with him. Percy rests against him, back to chest, head lolling on his shoulder as they move lazily.

Fudge has grown extra-twitchy since the winter. Bode's death was taken particularly hard. Noticing Percy's marked reticence regarding anything to do with his family, Lucius stops asking about them and concentrates on ingratiating himself further to the boy, winning trust. He has plans regarding Percy's future.

They writhe together aimlessly, listen to most of the evening news on the WWN before Lucius actually begins to fuck in earnest, turning Percy into a familiar mewling, shivering thing on his lap. By this point, Percy knows better than to touch his own cock; his grip on the armrests of the chair is turning his knuckles white, and he gives a grateful shudder as Lucius wraps fingers around him.

The strength of his climax leaves Lucius light-headed; he finishes Percy off a moment later and the two of them slump back on the chair, winded, panting. Lucius shivers as feels semen leaking back down over his balls, cooling as it trails. Still breathing heavily, pliant against him, Percy makes an inquisitive noise, the tip of his nose pressing against Lucius's jaw. Exhaling, Lucius wraps both arms around him. "I may be falling in love with you," he murmurs, turning his head to kiss the boy before he has a chance to reply.

It is a calculated statement: Lucius has not declared himself to be in love. He has only mentioned a possibility, which may or may not be true. That its intended recipient may latch onto the word "love" is not his concern.

The next night, Lucius is apprehended in the Department of Mysteries. After several hours spent in a holding cell in the DMLE, he is shipped to Azkaban to await his trial.

It occurs to him, after a week of nothing but time for contemplation, that though Percy smiled and kissed him happily, he did not say the word back.

 

  
_T_   


 

He has not heard any news about a member of his family for six months. Shortly after Bill's wedding (there was a brief announcement in the _Prophet_ , a longer one in the _Quibbler_ ), the Weasleys vanished. He never sees his father in the Ministry canteen; the twins' shop now numbers among the many vacant buildings in Diagon Alley. Apparently, Charlie never reported back to his camp in Romania after his leave for Bill's wedding was up.

Though he tries to restrict his feelings on the subject to annoyance, Percy cannot help but be worried for them.

As the slow exodus from wizarding London continues, Percy clings closer to his home. The wartime curfew the Ministry put into effect discourages any travel on the streets after dark, and on most nights Percy finds himself huddled under his blankets, listening to Radio 3 to escape the WWN, curled around a book--most likely one that Lucius gave him. They have the best illustrations.

He wonders how it will end.

There is one evening in November, bitter cold, when Percy's distracted from his soup-making in the kitchen by the familiar long-forgotten sound of someone tumbling out of his fireplace. The Floo Network has been temporarily shut down for nearly two months, so hackles raised, Percy ventures, saucepan in hand, out to the front room.

The image of Draco Malfoy, sooty and gaunt and sprawled wheezing on the Axminster, is one that he knows will stay with him. Conjuring a potholder, Percy sets the saucepan on the coffeetable and hurries to him, rolling him on his side, immediately checking for and confiscating his wand from a robes pocket.

Draco coughs deeply and opens his eyes, gazing straight up at him, and Percy feels something twist in his chest--it's been over a year since he's seen grey eyes like those. "Help," Draco demands almost soundlessly, and, exhaling, Percy nods and begins to prop him up, not thinking about the potential ramifications of his decision.

An hour later, Draco is less sooty (though Percy's bathtub will need a few rounds of Scouring charms), tucked in a corner of Percy's sofa, wearing pyjama bottoms and a Weasley jumper that are both too long for him, and sipping warily at a mug of earl grey. Percy sits in one of the chairs the boy's father gave him, and hopes they don't look familiar.

"It was on Dumbledore's orders." He can't help still sounding a bit incredulous.

"Yes."

"And he's--sorry, you're _both_ working as spies against You-Know-Who now."

"Yes." Draco raises his eyebrows.

"...Right." Percy snorts, smiling a little behind his own cool fingertips pressing into his mouth.

"Mm. You know, your father said you wouldn't believe me," Draco responds, sitting back a little, obviously pleased with the effect that pronouncement had on Percy.

His eyes are hungry, behind his glasses. "When did you see him?"

"Yesterday. And your mother. She sends her love."

"And they're well?"

"Yes."

"...And the others?"

Draco smirks a little, and looks so like Lucius in that moment that Percy doesn't know whether to hex him or drag him to the floor. "Fine. I haven't seen Girl Weasley in about a month, but the last I heard, she was alive."

Percy is almost lightheaded with relief. He nods slightly, and falls silent.

"I need your help," Draco says again, setting the mug down on the coffeetable, gaze going intent. Percy raises his own eyebrows, but doesn't respond. "There are records in the Department of Mysteries, I need them."

Percy purses his lips. "And I'd thought this was just a social call," he drawls, in a manner Draco recognises, one learned from the same source as his own. The boy seems to come to a decision and pushes the sleeves of his jumper up and slides forward, off the sofa and prowling forward.

"I need you, for them. You're the only one who can get them," Draco murmurs as he draws near. Unconsciously, Percy leans back in his chair, anticipating how the boy crawls into his lap, sliding his hands down to rest on slim hips. Inside, he is strangely unmoved--the absence of guilt is one he knows will puzzle him later. Draco's lips are cool and wet on his, cold fingers spidering along the back of his neck and into his hair. Percy sighs and closes his eyes. "I need you," Draco says again.

"I doubt that," Percy murmurs, pressing his cheek to the boy's, nose against hair that smells of his own shampoo. Draco hears the implied _convince me_ in that statement and smirks a little, slides a hand between them, onto Percy's belt buckle.

"I do," he says, moving away, sliding off the chair and onto the ground in one disturbingly fluid movement, settling between Percy's legs. "Need you," he says again, fingers working at the buckle and fastenings almost eagerly, grey eyes staring up at him. "Please, Percy, _please_?"

Pausing, Percy gazes down at him for a moment, then reaches to cup one soft cheek. He strokes the pad of his thumb over the cheekbone there, almost impassive before he breaks into a small smile. Draco recognises it as acquiescence, and smiles as well, sucking Percy's thumb into his mouth when it comes to trace over his bottom lip.

Percy's chest hitches, and he thinks how addictive it is, having grey eyes looking _up_ to him for once. He tilts his head, swipes his thumb against Draco's lip again. "Never beg, Draco," he murmurs, sliding his hand around to the back of his head, shifting his legs farther apart.

 _Never beg._


End file.
